ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
Rear their o'er-shadowing heads, and at their feet 
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, 
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; 
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, 
And o'er the distant billows the still Eve 
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 
To-morrow -- of the friends he lov'd most dear, -- 
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: -- 
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 
The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall, 
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, 
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, 
The World his country, and his God his guide.